


Ashfields and Brine

by convallaria_majalis



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Introspection, Multi, Padme Lives, Satine lives, WOMEN ARE SURVIVORS, What-If, fridged girlfriend trope can kiss my ass, satine goes full mando, war zone meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-01 22:09:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14530269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convallaria_majalis/pseuds/convallaria_majalis
Summary: When Maul comes to Mandalore, it isn't Satine who is killed—it's Obi-Wan. Distraught, she takes revenge, breaking her long-held vow of nonviolence. Now she must contend with grief and guilt as she tries to hold herself and her fractured planet together.





	1. Kyr'am

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for SWBB 2018! Find my lovely artists' work for it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14531889) and [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14540691/) Thank you guys so much :) :) :)
> 
> Sometimes the canon gets you so riled up that a simple fix-it fic won’t do—you actually have to burn the whole thing to the ground and start over. That is why I wrote this.
> 
> Note: for the purposes of this fic, Mandalore is multi-species, multi-racial, and multi-cultural. Filoni can fight me about it.
> 
> All Mando'a terms taken from the excellent [mandoa.org](mandoa.org) (with some liberal interpretation as to which words are swears)

**KYR’AM _(death)_ **

"Get up."

Satine is no fool, to ignore a command from the trigger end of a blaster. She stands.

"Am I privileged to know where you're taking me?" she demands of the blaster-holder. He's some Deathwatch soldier, an especially taciturn one, and he says nothing as they descend in the elevator and head out the guarded doors of Mandalore’s only prison.

It's dusk now in the street, the moon just beginning to rise. It takes Satine's eyes a moment to adjust from the harsh industrial lights, and a moment more to actually comprehend what she's seeing. Three figures: Darth Maul and his brother, and between them, Obi-Wan Kenobi, a blazing red lightsaber held to his throat.

"Obi?" She starts for him instinctively, but the Deathwatch soldier grips her arm and holds her back.

"Satine," he says, and she can see that he's bruised and bleeding. "The council wouldn't authorize support, so I came alone. I'm sorry."

"Thank you, Duchess," Maul says, oily and smug in that way she’s come to know too well. "You delivered Kenobi right into my hands—and just in time. Your people are calling for your execution, and I hardly think I can put them off any longer."

Satine's heart sinks. Not for herself, but for Obi-Wan, now at the mercy of his oldest and cruelest enemy. She ought to have known.

"You're a coward," she tells him, her voice growing in strength and steadiness as she speaks. "Sowing violence and chasing power is the path of weakness. Mandalore will never submit to your rule."

Maul waves a hand. Something hits Satine’s chest hard and sends her sprawling to the pavement, her teeth clattering painfully together. When she scrambles upright, gasping, she sees Maul’s outstretched hand and too-pleased smile—and Obi-Wan’s feet, scrabbling for purchase in midair.

Never in Satine’s life has she seen the Force used like this. “That’s barbaric!” she gasps. _“Stop!”_

"Kenobi." Maul pulls him closer. Satine can see his fingers moving, trying to loosen the invisible rope around his throat. "We've had our differences, yes? I used to want to make you suffer, repay you for what you did to me. But once your precious Duchess is dead and I am the ruler of her two thousand systems... I don't think I'll have time for old grudges any more."

Maul's arm moves almost too fast for Satine to follow. He pulls the Darksaber from his belt, presses the hilt against the Jedi’s chest—and the blue-black blade crackles to life, pierced straight through Obi-Wan’s body.

A scream tears out of Satine’s mouth.

Obi-Wan crumples to the flagstones at her feet. She breaks free from the soldier’s bruise-tight hold and rushes to pull him into her arms.

"Obi," she whispers. He's trembling, smoke rising from the hole in his chest, but he looks up at her and tries to smile.

"Satine." His voice is hoarse and quiet. "I loved you. You must know that."

Satine nods, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. He reaches his hand up to her cheek, and she holds it there, pressed tight against her skin.

A shudder wracks his body. "Don't give up, dearest," he rasps—and then he's gone, and Satine feels as if every scrap of light is gone too.

“Oh, that’s touching.” Maul’s thick-gloved hand falls on her shoulder. "Let's go, little Duchess. You have a date to keep."

Fire blossoms in Satine’s chest. She can feel it in her gut, in her hands, behind her eyes. It turns rarely-used muscles to iron as she hooks her arm around Maul’s and forces him off balance. With her other hand, she reaches out and plucks the Darksaber from his fumbling fingers.

Before she was elected to lead the Council of Neutral Systems—before she became _Duchess_ Satine Kryze—before the civil war that ripped her planet apart and made her promise herself _never again_ —she was a child of Mandalore, the proud warriors, the Jedi-slayers. In those days, children learned to kill.

Satine stands. Maul’s recovering his feet. His brother, the tall one, rushes towards her, double blade raised. She sees them move in slow motion, analyzes their momentum and attack.

She has one advantage. The training of her ancestors, honed against Force-wielders. _Strike first and without mercy_ —if she defeats them, it will be _now_.

The war-yell of Clan Kryze breaks like a wave from her throat.

Two heads thud sickeningly to the pavement.

Before she has a moment to think, there's the whir of a charging blaster behind her. _Oh, kark, the soldier._ She turns, holding the saber up before her—and it's only when he falls back that she realizes she's deflected his shot back into his face.

 _Now you've done it_ , says some tiny corner of her mind. There's a deafening ringing in her ears.

Satine lets the Darksaber fall from her nerveless fingers. On legs that suddenly feel like blocks of wood, she goes to where Obi-Wan lies and kneels at his side.

“Darling, I’m so sorry,” she whispers. A strand of his beautiful red-gold hair is lying across his face; she fixes it with fingers she can now see are shaking.

Around her, the deserted street is beginning to fill up. Civilians, journalists, police—they’re a dim roar at the edges of her perception. Good. They might as well see her like this, kneeling among the ruin of everything she stood for.

Footsteps behind her. She doesn't look up.

"Your Grace." It’s a woman’s voice, young, concerned. One of the new palace guards.

"Go away."

"Your Grace—you should leave, for your safety."

Satine laughs, humorlessly, because in this moment her safety is worth less to her than a broken penny. She’s about to inform the guard as much when a new voice interrupts her.

It’s Bo-Katan’s, flat and businesslike. “Stand back. I’ve got this.”

Satine turns to her, like someone in a desert reaching for water, because no matter if Bo is leading a group that plants bombs and wants Satine dead, at least she is _known_.

"Bo." Satine looks for understanding in her eyes. "I—I killed—"

Bo-Katan sheds her helmet and presses her sister's hand between hers, speaking urgently. "Satine, get a grip. You're safe. Just try to relax, all right?"

"I'm a _murderer_ , Bo." Her voice is strong, but not without a tremor. "You have to—"

“Oh, kark. What, arrest you? Don’t be ridiculous.” Bo slides an arm around her sister's waist and lifts her. “Come on, we’ve got to get busy.”

Bo pulls her away, but Satine can’t help but look back. “Obi,” she says, pleading. “Someone has to stay with him.”

Bo grunts, but she calls over an armored Deathwatch woman anyway. “Get these bodies to the morgue at Sundari General. And try to keep the cameras away.”

Satine's head is spinning. Everything around her seems to be underwater. "Where’re we going?" she asks Bo, as they stagger away.

“You’ll know when we get there.” She piles Satine onto her speeder. “Good news is, I think we can make this work. Dumb luck, I think but, you killed the guy who was running Deathwatch, so their loyalty’ll transfer to you—if you can keep it together for ten minutes, all right?”

Satine has just one question. “Since when are you on my side?”

Bo tenses up. “Tell you later.”

The air is chilly now, crisp. As Bo-Katan picks up speed, Satine can feel it brushing tears from her eyelids.

Then, as if dropped there, she finds herself on the speaking platform in Sundari’s main square. She looks out over a dark sea of scared faces. Bo-Katan has to hold her to keep her from listing.

Oh, no. The last time Satine was up here, it was the beginning of the end.

"Mando'ade!" The speakers pick up Bo's voice and send it crackling over the crowd, earsplitting. "The time of unrest is over. Those who have been hurt will be safe; those who have threatened you will be dealt with.” Is that a vicious snarl in Bo’s voice, or merely the effect of the reverberation? “Duchess Satine defended you from the outsiders who would have destroyed us. Deathwatch is now under her control.”

There’s more, patriotic drivel and lies, but Satine doesn’t hear it. Bo always had been loose with the truth. It makes Satine's head spin.

There’s cheering, for some reason. Satine feels her sister grab her hand.

"I give you..." Bo raises Satine's arm. "Your true _Mand'alor!"_

More cheering.

Satine says something, at Bo's prodding. She doesn't know what it is. Evidently it's acceptable.

"You owe me," Bo tells her, as she pulls Satine towards the speeder. "Let's go."

“Where?”

"Home."

"The _palace_?" Bo-Katan hasn't called that place home since the war.

"Yeah. Try to hold yourself up, okay? You're not injured."

"Sorry," Satine mutters. As they take off, she notices a contingent of Deathwatch members following behind. “Bo, who’s that?”

“Your honor guard, _Mand’alor_.”

Satine can hear the smirk. She scowls. "Call them off. I don't need protection, especially from Deathwatch."

"I’d like to," Bo-Katan says. "But some _shabuir’e_ still want you dead."

"Last time I checked, _you_ were my greatest threat."

"Not _me_ ," Bo mutters, banking hard. Satine has to grab at her sister's waist just to stay seated. “I never let anyone get close to you. If they did, I took care of it.”

Satine closes her eyes for a moment. Bo-Katan _killed_ on her behalf; she feels sick.

But… is she now any better?

In the entry hall, Bo-Katan puts her hands on Satine's shoulders and looks into her eyes. She looks as wrung out as Satine feels.

"I know this is hard," she says, her blue eyes as intense as blasterfire. "But you’ll handle it. You always have."

"How can you believe that?" Satine's voice cuts off in an inelegant squeak. She turns her head, as if she can hide in her own shoulder, and presses her crumpled face against her tightly balled fist.

She feels like her world is crumbling—no, _has_ crumbled. And Bo-Katan—well, Bo was never very good at anything involving feelings. She pulls Satine into a stilted, awkward hug and says nothing.

"I'm going to go see how things are going out there," she says at last, after disengaging Satine's face from her left pauldron. "Try to keep it together. You have a system to run."

Satine watches her go, feeling entirely numb. She's not positive her mind is still attached to her body.

Mechanically, she skirts the edge of the throne room, ducking under the gaze of the enormous stained-glass portrait and studiously avoiding the dais. She doesn't know where she's heading, but she ends up at the door to the kitchen, so she might as well go in.

The night chef is there, setting up for tomorrow's breakfast. No matter the turmoil outside, in the morning there will still be people who need to be fed. A small wiry Bith, he rolls out dough and packs away leftovers with a speed approaching ferocity. He reminds Satine of herself at a younger age.

"Duchess," he says as she enters, and nods his head.

"Hi, Sulit," she says, and takes a seat next to the counter. "Do you mind if I sit here for a while? It's not a great day to be a Duchess."

"Not at all." He opens a drawer and slides her one of her favorite candies. "Especially since you technically own this entire kitchen."

She nods, a wry smile on her face, and settles in to watch him work in silence.

Those little tarts, like flowers with berries at the center, ready to be baked for the next morning. Obi-Wan loved those—wouldn't admit it, of course, since he was supposed to be above any display that might be considered frivolous or ostentatious—but she'd known anyway, and snuck him a few whenever she could.

Then she snaps back from the memory like a recoiling cannon. _Shabuir_. She has to comm the Jedi High Council and tell them what happened. She has to—

Satine forces her thoughts to slow down. She's in no state to do that. And besides—the Jedi know by now what happened. There were cameras all over the place. The best thing she can do right now is take care of herself.

"You haven't touched your lemon drop," Sulit says, breaking her out of her own thoughts. "Or rather, you've done nothing but touch it."

Satine laughs in spite of herself and stops twisting the wrapper between her fingers.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

She shakes her head. "I won't burden you. I think I'm just going to head up to bed."

That's a lie, of course. Bed is a complete impossibility, so Satine doesn't even try. She climbs up to the observation deck, a blanket and a mug of tea against the chill.

There's a little alcove with a bench, a lovely place to see the stars from. She needs something more tonight, something to remind herself of her own smallness. She wraps up in the blanket and sits down. It's not thick enough to be cozy in, but that's all right. Ordinary comforts right now would be hollow.

Satine watches the stars inch and curve their way across the sky, naming them as they pass. She sees the ethereal trails of comets and makes more than a few wishes.

She doesn't remember falling asleep, but she must have, because she wakes at midnight to a beautiful starlit sky. And something else: not what you would call a _presence_ , exactly, but a simple feeling of not being alone. A feeling that despite all indications to the contrary, things will turn out all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _shabuir'e_ \- “motherfuckers” (literally, 'parent-fuckers;' ‘buir’ is gender-neutral)  
>  _shabuir_ \- “motherfucker”


	2. En'nar

**EN’NAR _(duty)_ **

 

Satine wakes in her own bed at dawn. _I feel like death_ , she thinks, and then instantly regrets the comparison. She draws the covers up, up, well over her head, and curls up inside them, feeling as if she's falling into an endless hole.

_"Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum,"_ she murmurs, into the pillows. This is one piece of the old ways that she can't leave behind: the chanted remembrance of lost loved ones, their names forming a familiar rhythm that's with her as soon as she opens her eyes. And now she has a new name to add.

"An-Mairin Kryze. Adonai Kryze. Usedra Kryze. Tam Elau. Jen Elau. Syarn Molla... Obi-Wan Kenobi."

_It wasn't worth it_ , she thinks. This is the theme of her thoughts. The decades of building and maintaining Mandalore’s tenuous peace, the hard-won power and respect, even her stupid Title—what is the point of it all if this kind of pain can touch you?

And she could have had it, too. Abdicated. Asked him to live with her on some beautiful backwater planet. Raised chickens. And he would have; she'd known it since the day they parted.

Out there, no one would have come looking for power or revenge.

But that would have brought its own problems—which is why she'd never asked. Most likely, the Duchess and the Jedi, isolated, would have driven each other mad. They were neither of them the type to hide away and leave the world to its suffering.

Which is why, after only a few minutes, Satine throws off the covers and stands, fiercely, violently. She’s instructed her assistant to prepare her brief as normal, and there it is in flimsi on her desk. Satine flips through it, but it’s all sanitized: targeted sites and death tolls in a bulleted list, every trace of detail and personal pain removed.

Satine scoffs under her breath and pushes the brief aside. Bless Amalfi, she has Satine’s mental health at heart, but Satine can’t govern unless she understands what’s really happening out there.

She pulls up a few news sites on her datapad—a few galaxy-wide networks, as well as local ones. The coverage spans the spectrum from placid to hysterical, with every possible spin on what they’re calling “the upheaval.” Satine drags a hand across her face; the miasma of articles and opinions and hyperbole is overwhelming.

Then she sees it: enormous, full-color, a photo of her with the Darksaber in her hand and death surrounding her. "Duchess Returns to Vicious Warrior Roots?" reads the headline, which makes her want to step outside the safe haven of Sundari's dome, into the white, howling desert, and never come back.

When you are a ruler—when you are the head of the Council of Neutral Systems—when you are the face on the posters and the stamps, it all comes back to you in the end. Even if you have a parliament; even if you believe it's in people's nature to be selfish and violent and greedy, which Satine does not; even if you have enemies; in the end, you are the one responsible when people get hurt.

Especially if you have enemies, because who has more enemies than a leader? Why was Obi-Wan killed if not because he was close to her, because power of any kind leaves a trail of destruction in its wake?

_Four people are dead because of me._

Just as she’s about to descend into a paralyzed haze, her personal comm beeps.

“Yes?”

“Hey, Aunt Satine. Look, I don’t want to bother you, but Aunt Bo and I could really use the access codes to the weapons lockers at the docks.”

“Korkie?” There’s an explosion in the background. “What are you _doing?”_

“Talking to some Deathwatch folks who still aren’t on board with having you in power.” Another explosion. “It’s actually kind of urgent, so—”

“Satine, _gar utreekov_ , now!” Bo-Katan sounds thoroughly pissed off.

“Very well.” Satine can do better than codes: she pulls out her datapad and remotely grants access. “Be safe, you two, and Bo? When you get back, we’re going to have a talk about what ‘role model’ means.”

Bo-Katan growls, and the line disconnects.

Satine shakes her head. She might disapprove of Bo letting Korkie join in that fight, but the fact remains that they are putting their lives on the line to keep Mandalore—and _her_ —safe. She had better start pulling her weight.

First step: get out of yesterday’s torn-up outfit. Satine flips through her clothes, and rapidly finds that _regalia_ makes her nauseous. Silk feels like sandpaper, and royal purple might as well be poison. She digs through old chests until she finds it: a worn, gray-green jumpsuit from the summer spent tending Sundari’s first community garden. She rubs the fabric between her fingers and remembers:  Warm sun. Damp earth. Hours of aiding the growth of beautiful and useful plants, and getting to know the people who make Sundari their home.

It’ll do. She zips it up, rolls the sleeves to her elbows, ties her hair back, and gets to work.

First stop: Sundari General. She tries to get out quietly, like a teenager sneaking out the bedroom window, but a few palace guards and one of Bo’s Nite Owls insist on accompanying her.

And as it turns out, that’s a good thing. When Satine walks into the main wing, businesslike and flanked by soldiers, the orderlies and patients sit up and stare—well, the patients who can. She can see it reflected in their eyes: even with no weapon at her belt, no battle-scarred armor, they have finally caught the first glimpse of their _mand’alor_.

She talks with them. One by one, for as long as she can stay. It takes time, and a little prodding, to get people to speak their minds to her, but eventually they open up.

"So you came around, eh?" an old woman asks, smiling crookedly at her. Her voice is faint and reedy from the respirator. Satine counts several prominent scars on her skin—and for a moment of heartache she reminds Satine of her mother, if her mother had lived to this age.

"What do you mean?"

"Mandalore doesn't want peace." She coughs. "We want safety. Sometimes, fighting is the safer choice."

Once Satine would have spat back a sharp rebuttal, and she nearly does now—but perhaps some of what the woman says is true. In the middle of a galactic civil war, pacifism isn't so much a shining example as it is a banner advertising one’s defenselessness.

Satine thanks the woman for talking to her and moves on, her head full of chaotic new ideas. She sets her jaw and turns her mind to her next stop: the house run by the Order of the Green Fern. Satine sends the guards and the Nite Owl home—though she has to use every ounce of her Duchess imperiousness to get them to listen.

The Fern Order’s head is her own Cousin Marto. She’d glimpsed the site in her brief this morning, on the list of places bombed by the Black Sun. Thankfully, he’s all right. But the place itself? Wayward chickens and goats are pecking and scrounging among the rubble. Marto stands outside, directing the unhurt Order members and anyone who will help to restore some order to the place. The roof is caved in, the ancient stone structure crumbling. Satine parks her speeder nearby and hurries up the long steps.

"Hi, Marto," she says. "How is it?"

Marto turns and stares. "Satine! The way they're talking on the street, it sounded like they finally got to you." He grabs her hand and squeezes it.

"Nearly," she says. "But I'll be okay. Marto, let me help out here."

"Be glad to have the hands, but don't you have, I don't know, royal stuff to do?"

Satine smiles. "No. This is where I need to be."

He puts her to work clearing the temple's main entrance. It's sad to see it like this, when she can remember clearly how ancient and stately it looked back when Marto first abdicated his barony to follow the Ferns. This work suited him much better; he was never the sort to sit in a room and wait for the achingly long arc of progress when there were people starving in Sundari’s streets.

Satine's paired with another woman to pull the planks and broken bits of stone wall away from the front door. Yulia is her name; she's tall, dark-skinned and short-haired. She speaks with a slight lisp. And she’s _strong_. Satine struggles to keep up when she lifts one end of a huge board or stone and, smiling, encourages her to "put your back into it!"

"I am!" Satine says, out of breath, though she's smiling. She wonders if Yulia knows who she’s speaking to; with her hair back and no regalia, it might be difficult to tell. What would she think if she found out?

Satine introduces herself as Thal—an old nickname from when she and Bo were little, so old that neither of them can remember how they came up with it. It's comforting. Not being Satine is still a relief.

The rest of the day passes, with much backbreaking work. They free a few trapped Fern members, but recover twice as many bodies. There are tears, mostly in private.

Satine tends to the wounded, helps patch up the temple, and before she knows it, it's dark.

"Need a ride home?" Yulia asks, although she's leaning up against what is clearly Satine's speeder.

"Oh," Satine says. "No, but it's kind of you to offer. It was lovely meeting you, Yulia."

"You too, Thal." Her smile is lopsided; if they had met in a time not defined by grief and war, Satine would call it cute.

Back home, Satine drags dusty hands down her exhausted face, dimly aware that she needs to shower. But that’s a problem for tomorrow. She hauls herself into bed, jumpsuit and all, grabs her datapad, and taps out a single message before closing her eyes.

_Trading chai and cookies for therapy tomorrow. Are you free?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum"_ \- “I'm still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.” (Traditional daily remembrance of departed loved ones)  
>  _gar utreekov_ \- "you idiot"


	3. Haal

**HAAL _(breath)_ **

 

When Satine cracks her eyelids in the morning, the first thing she sees is _him_.

The fact that she’d expected this, and maybe even hoped for it, doesn’t make it any less disorienting. She doesn’t move from her position, curled up with her face half buried in the pillow; her head spins with memory and pain.

“Obi,” she croaks, mouth dry.

He looks as if he knows what she’s feeling, as if seeing her miserable hurts him too. Then he begins to fade, and Satine dives out of bed, ends up in a heap on her floor trying to grab at his cloak.

But he’s gone. “ _Haar’chak shabla osik’la shu’shuk_ ,” Satine curses through clenched teeth, frustrated, aggrieved tears springing to her eyes. “Will you not let me have even this?”

Miserably, she thinks of what he would say, if she could speak to him now. Would he understand why she—why she _killed_ Maul and his brother? Jedi do not kill in anger; Jedi do not seek revenge. The Satine that he knew, and dare she say loved, would sooner cut out her own heart than do either.

She presses her forehead hard into the floor, twists herself into the smallest shape she can.

Her datapad dings. She ignores it.

Later—minutes or hours?—it dings again. Again she ignores it. Seconds after that, there’s a knock at her door.

“Your Grace?” It’s Amalfi, of course. “I don’t want to bother you, but it’s your cousin Marto. He’s very insistent.”

Satine groans. “Ugh, all right, I’ll be there. Tell him to at least wait for me to take a sonic.”

With superhuman effort, she pries herself up off the floor, strips off yesterday’s jumpsuit. She leans against the walls of the shower, eyes closed.

 _Haar’chak_ , life is hard and cruel and pointless and following through on plans that you made last night is the worst part of the entire experience.

“Stop being so dramatic,” she mutters. “This is going to be good for you. Now go.”

Three minutes later she’s in the kitchen, hair in a bun and wearing an apron borrowed from Sulit, rolling out the dough for her favorite easy spiced cookies. Tea steams and steeps on the stove.

It’s a longstanding agreement she and Marto have. She makes cookies and chai, and he helps sort out whatever’s bothering her. Although Marto has a talent for it, he doesn’t have to do much; the process of making something with her own hands tends to put things right on its own.

She wonders if he’s up to this task.

"So," Marto says, after a few minutes. "Tell me about it."

"How much do you know?"

"Doesn't matter. Tell me."

Satine steadies herself for a moment and begins. This is why the routine includes baking: if she had only her own thoughts to focus on, she would easily get overwhelmed. As it is, she finds herself working up a sweat, cutting out the cookies with a viciousness as she talks. At one point, rolling the dough too hard, she presses it paper-thin and has to gather it up and start over.

"That's it," she says finally, when the last batch of cookies is in the oven.

Marto nods. "That is what happened. Now what's in your head today? How do you feel?"

"Awful," Satine says immediately. "Like I've been run over by a supertank."

Marto smilles. "And yet you're upright, dressed and making cookies. That's impressive if nothing else."

"I suppose," Satine says, but she doesn't share Marto's enthusiasm. Upright is a damn low bar.

"Okay, tell me about that awful feeling. Sit with it and find the roots."

 _"Ugh."_ She glares at him. This is her least favorite part.

Marto looks at her with gentle reproach. "Go and get some tea if that helps."

Satine does. "Um," she says as she stirs sugar into the mug. She's not paying attention and puts in twice as much as usual. "Well, first, I lost somebody I cared about. That's enough to flatten anyone."

"True," says Marto. "You knew this Jedi?"

Satine nods, her mouth twisting in an expression that she won't even try to name. "You remember during the civil war, when I left for a year? And the Jedi offered me protection?"

Marto nods. "There were two—an older and a younger."

"He was the younger one," she says, and oh _kark_ , that calls up a memory of how he was then, and the choked-up feeling is starting to come into her throat. "We stayed in touch over the years. In fact the only reason he was here was because I called—"

Marto puts a hand over hers, and he must know what she’s thinking because he hurries to get the words out. "That doesn't make his death your _fault_ , Satine."

"I _cannot_ convince myself of that." It comes out more forcefully than she intends, because she's holding her body rigid as iron.

"Maybe not now," Marto says softly. "But you will."

He's silent for a minute, waiting while she lets the swell of her emotions hit her and pass.

 _"Shabla mirshe,"_ Satine mutters at last, pinching the bridge of her nose. She heaves a deep sigh.

Then the cookie timer goes off, and both Satine and Marto jump.

"I'll just get those," she says, clearing her throat. Marto nods and lets go of her hand.

Taking the cookies off the sheets and setting them out to cool is easy, steadying, something she knows how to do. Satine brings a couple back over to the counter.

"So, is that it?" Marto asks. "Or is there more?"

Satine sighs. "Well, the fact that Sundari is a shambles, and that I’m trying and failing to re-navigate my relationship with Bo-Katan, who two days ago was calling for my ouster, if you recall. And oh," she says casually. "I think I ought to step down."

From Marto's expression, this is clearly a bombshell.

 _"Why?"_ he asks, as if she'd said she was thinking of picking up Twi’lek club dance, or becoming a paid assassin.

His surprise surprises her. "Marto, I killed people!" She gestures wildly. "Me, 'the galaxy's foremost advocate for peace,' if you can remember writing that!"

"True," he says, slowly. "Though I don't think that necessarily makes you unfit for your post. From what I understand, you were protecting yourself, and Mandalore."

Satine raises her eyebrows. "My actions may have had that _effect_ , but at the time, I was definitely not thinking about myself or Mandalore. I just—I saw red, Marto. And I keep going around and around in my mind thinking about it, and..." She wraps her fingers tightly around the tea mug, steadying and rooting herself. "I don't think I can move forward. Everything I worked towards, all those years since the civil war. I struck it all down in one moment."

"What makes you say that?"

"I mean—" Satine frowns. Why isn’t he getting it? "I dedicated my life to peace. I defined myself by it. I looked down on those who chose violence. And yet... in that moment, I did no better." She grips the cup harder. "I can't reconcile that."

"I can," Marto replies. "A lifetime of commitment against one mistake? The scales of the gods balance."

"It wasn't a mistake," Satine says forcefully. "Or, what I mean is, I made a choice. One that I never dreamed I would make, one that I defined myself by never making. Doesn't that make a mockery of everything that came before? How can I continue to lead Mandalore without feeling like the galaxy's biggest hypocrite?"

He’s silent for a moment. "Those are tough questions. I can help you talk through them, but I can't answer them for you."

"Thank you. I—yes, I don't think I'm ready to tackle those yet, but I’ll keep thinking.”

“Good, because any guidance beyond that is more than tea and cookies will buy you today. Even if it is Alderaanian chai."

Satine smiles. "Thank you for everything you've said."

“Of course," Marto says. "You are my favorite cousin, after all."

"That's only because Bo broke your arm when we were kids.”

"Maybe so. Hey, guess what, Yulia's been asking about you."

"Oh," Satine says, and she's surprised how happy she is to hear that. "Really?"

"Yeah," says Marto, grinning. "Should I give her your comm code?"

Excitement pricks in Satine’s chest, but she quickly suppresses it. "No. She doesn’t want to date the Duchess. Besides, who'd want this mess in their lives?"

"First of all, stop that. Second, 'Tine, gods love you but you're dense sometimes. Everyone at the temple knew who you were. They were all simply too polite to be weird about it."

"Really? But I gave a fake name, and I wasn't wearing any regalia, and I was covered in... _osik_..."

Marto laughs. "You thought that would be enough to hide you, because you thought no one would expect you to be getting your hands dirty sorting through a ruined building. People _know_ you, Satine. They knew that was exactly where you'd be."

"Oh," she says. This is new information. "Well, in that case, go ahead. I'd love to hear from her."

"Good," says Marto, and smiles. "Well, I must be going. Rebuilding and all that. Oh, and I'm upping the cookie tax." He stuffs several into his pockets.

"Help yourself," Satine says, smiling. "You deserve significantly more."

Marto waves her off. "Later, 'Tine. And remember, try to stop being so hard on yourself."

It’s less than an hour later that she gets a holocall from Bo-Katan.

"You functional yet?" says her sister, perched like a bird—or an assassin—on the palace complex's outer wall. "I heard you have a government to run, and I have some ideas."

"Bo," Satine says, half scolding, half fond. It’s _bizarre_ is what it is, to have Bo back after years of estrangement—but with everything Satine’s lost, she can’t bring herself to fight it.  "Get down from there, and we'll talk."

"Dork," Bo-Katan says, but half a minute later she's at the front door.

They settle down at a small table in the entertaining suite. Most days, Satine is mildly annoyed by the fact that propriety dictates she own an _entertaining suite_ , but today it's coming in handy.

"Okay," Satine says. "You have ideas. I hope they're in the form of actual policies, and not targets."

"Cool it," Bo says. "In case you didn’t notice, I’ve been pretty karking busy while you were out of commission. Do you know how underfunded your emergency services are?"

Satine presses her lips together in annoyance. "We hardly needed them, until _someone_ decided bombing schools and supermarkets would be a good idea."

Bo-Katan goes rigid. From across the room, Satine can feel her hackles rise. "Why are you still so _godsdamn dense?"_ she growls.

Satine sits back, stiffens. "Go ahead," she says quietly.

Bo-Katan looks away. "If you met some of the people in Deathwatch, maybe you'd get it," she mutters. "I mean, it's what I said since the beginning. You can't just pack people— _your_ people—off to the moon because they won't go along with your New World Order."

"Bo, we've been over this."

"No, I'm not done. You can't do it. Especially not while calling it _nonviolence_. You know what's violence? One of our sergeants lost a hand to a mining machine on Concordia. She made half a credit for each fourteen hour shift. That's violence. And—and there was a man in third squad whose kids were killed in that poison tea episode. Violence."

"I didn't—"

"Yeah, you didn't personally poison the tea yourself," Bo says acidly. "But the trade blockade, the scarcity, putting that _shabuir_ Almec in charge of things—you created an environment that allowed that to happen. Look, all I'm saying is, if you're going to fix this, fix it right."

Satine crosses her arms. She's defensive and steaming, but maybe Bo has a point. Deathwatch didn't come out of nowhere, and Mandalore has been plagued with problems for longer than she'd like to admit.

"Fine," she manages. "I'll try to understand."

"It's a miracle," Bo-Katan mutters. "Call the news."

Satine looks more closely at her. Something's off about Bo-Katan, and she has a hunch what it is. She grabs Bo's drink and sniffs. "Is that—"

"Jack-and-caf, yeah. Pulling out all the stops here."

"Bo!"

Bo-Katan rolls her eyes. "You have therapy, I have jack-and-caf. We have to keep this _osik’la_ system running somehow. And don't act all high and mighty, you drank your share of these back in school."

Satine stares. "Bo-Katan... are you _okay_?"

"No!" Bo barks. "In case you missed it, the Sith took _my_ boyfriend's head off, right before he stabbed _your_ boyfriend and you took _his_ head off! So no, I’m not okay!"

" _Haar’chak_ ," Satine says, stunned. "No, I didn't know. I'm sorry, Bo."

"Thanks," says Bo bitterly. She takes a swig of the jack-and-caf. "Gods, that's disgusting. Want some?"

“For old time's sake," says Satine, and holds out her hand. She takes a drink and coughs, eyes watering. The stuff is like drain cleaner. "Mm, just like I remember it. You can keep the rest of that, thanks."

Bo manages a smile. "So, ready to get our brains melted with legal jargon?"

"Oh, please. I have people for that."

Bo-Katan huffs. "Please tell me you’re kidding."

“What? I can't have a lawyer or two, or four, for getting through inhumanly long senate legislation?"

"See, that is _exactly_ the problem." Bo-Katan stabs a finger at her. "This whole government thing has gotten way out of hand. We ought to start over from sticks and rocks and 'ug'."

"Policies," Satine groans. "You said you had policies. When this is all over we can go get plastered and argue our heads off about the merits of primitive anarchy but right now—"

"Okay, okay, okay," says Bo-Katan—and pulls out her datapad.

Together they hash it out. Rehab programs for the Concordian exiles, with the goal of reintegration into Mandalorian society should they choose it. Emergency procedures for food shortages that don’t require the Trade Federation or the black market. Defense spending that will be spent on _defense_ , not preemptive offense.

Just when they think they’re done, Satine remembers something. "You know what I'd like to see _you_ do?" she asks Bo.

"Oh, _gar shabuir_." Bo takes a swig of the jack-and-caf. "Hit me."

Satine is surprised to find that actually? She would really like to. She settles for her Icy Voice Of Disapproval.

"So I guess you're the big cheese at Deathwatch now," she says. "Or whatever you're calling yourselves these days."

Bo-Katan shrugs. “Technically, you are.”

“I hereby abdicate control of Deathwatch to my sister.” Satine finds herself pacing, but she doesn’t care; years of things she’s wanted to tell Bo-Katan are welling up, and they will be said. “Now, can you please let everybody know that I'd really like them to _stop bombing people_. You want something changed? I have a comm line. I have town halls. Running for local office is free, and it’s a great way to meet people! But stop putting ordinary Mandalorians in danger because you don't like _me_. Honestly, Bo-Katan, I'm still floored that you went this route. It hurts."

"Yeah," Bo says quietly. "It was supposed to. But I think I'm done with that now. I’d like to get Deathwatch pointed in a more productive direction." She laughs. “And maybe a name change. ‘Deathwatch’ doesn’t go over so great.”

It seems like every new thing Bo does is surprising to Satine. "Great," she says, suddenly scrabbling for words. "Um, that’s fantastic. ...Do you want some cookies?"

Bo-Katan's eyes light up. " _Yes_. I'm starving.”

They head out to the garden to catch the last light of the afternoon. There's a bench by the central fountain, and that's where they sit, a huge bag of Satine's spiced cookies between them.

"You know," says Satine, "Not to complain about perfect dome-weather, but I do miss having seasons. Getting caught in rainstorms. All that."

"Me too. Although—it's midwinter. If things were the way they used to be, this whole thing would be carpeted with snow."

"True. Hah, remember how I used to make snow-castles, and you'd come crashing through them on your skis? Or just dive into the center? Civil war _ner shebs_ —I think that's really when I became a pacifist."

Bo-Katan snickers. "Some pacifist. You gave me a black eye once."

"So did you," Satine teases. "Fair's fair."

There's silence for a moment. Bo-Katan munches on a cookie, the setting sun lining her face.

"Bo," Satine says softly. "I really am sorry—about Pre."

Bo doesn't look at her. "It's okay," she says. "He was a sonuvabitch anyway."

Satine isn't sure what to say to that, because yes, Pre Vizsla _was_ a piece of work. She doesn’t have enough fingers to count all the times he tried to kill her. She settles for putting an arm around her sister's shoulders and gently squeezing. Bo-Katan leans into her.

At last Satine stirs. "I should probably head back in," she says. "I have something important to do."

"Me too," Bo says. "See you later, dork."

She activates her jetpack and is out of sight with a roar in a moment. Satine chuckles. Never change, you little twerp.

She's hardly a step back inside when she meets Amalfi, seriousness written all over her face.

"Your Grace, you're going to want to take a look at this."

Satine takes the envelope and sinks into a conveniently placed chair, a thousand potential crises popping into her head. What is there left to ruin?

 _Massive explosion rocks heart of Coruscant_ , the headline reads. _Cause believed to be a malfunctioning chemical reactor. 134 dead or missing_. She skims the list of names, but only one is highlighted: Anakin Skywalker.

"Oh, no," Satine murmurs. "Have you heard from Padmé?"

"I have not. Would you like me to send a condolence card?"

As if to spare Satine the explanation of how utterly inadequate that would be, her personal comlink beeps, and she answers it.

“Duchess. There’s a yacht out here—H-type Nubian. They’re demanding to speak with you, but no landing authorization. OK to send them on their way?”

“No, wait,” Satine says quickly. She has a hunch about who’s on that ship. “Patch me through.”

“This is Duchess Satine,” she says warmly, once the line connects. “To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

“Satine!” She recognizes Padmé’s voice immediately, tired but bright. “My sisters and I were in the area. I thought we’d stop by for tea, if that’s all right.”

The code—they haven’t needed it in years. _I’m not in immediate danger but need to lay low for a while. I brought bodyguards._ Padmé suspects the ship of being bugged, or the line compromised. “Sounds lovely,” Satine replies. “I’ll get your landing codes and put the kettle on.”

When Padmé finally steps out of her shuttle at the palace’s hidden entrance, it’s with worry creased on her face and four of her old Naboo handmaids in tow. Dormé, Teckla, Sabé, and Ellé, if Satine remembers correctly. What could have spooked Padmé like this?

Satine takes her hand. “How are you holding up?” she asks.

Padmé gives her a half smile. “Not great.”

“Whatever you need,” Satine promises, pulling her into the entrance hall. “Padmé...” She doesn’t want to ask, but she has to. "The report said not all of the deaths were confirmed. Did they find—?"

Padmé shakes her head. "The wreckage is enormous. It'll take weeks for them to sort through. But I can feel it, Satine. If he'd survived, I would know."

Wordlessly, Satine takes her hand.

"He was coming to visit me," Padmé says, her voice shaky. She wipes at her cheek with a brocaded sleeve. "We were going to make dinner."

"I'm sorry," Satine murmurs, pulling Padmé into her arms. "I'm so sorry."

Padmé clings tight to her and takes a deep breath.

Then she startles. "Gods, Satine, what about you? Obi-Wan—oh dear, I didn't even send you a letter.”

“It’s all right,” Satine reassures her. “I’m fine.” She’s surprised to find that, in a way, it’s actually true. “I have my family and friends to help me. And I will help you.”

“Thank you,” Padmé says quietly. “Satine... I need to ask you a favor.”

“Of course.”

“I need to disappear.”

Satine frowns. “Why?”

“After the explosion—” Padmé swallows. “I had some people look into it, and I don’t think it was as accidental as it looks. Anakin may have been—targeted. I won’t go into detail, but I’ve been getting clues that might be costly to ignore. I need to stay with you for a while, until I know it’s safe.”

“Are you telling me Anakin was _murdered?_ Does the Council know? _”_

Padmé shakes her head. “You know what they’re like. And at this point, everyone’s a suspect. The safest thing for me to do right now is stay hidden.”

Satine stares at her. “Of course, you can stay here as long as you like. But I don’t understand. You have people to represent—a Senate to keep from going off the deep end. You’ve never let threats stop you before.”

Padmé’s mouth twitches. “It’s different this time. I don’t only have myself to think of.”

“You—?”

Padmé nods. “I’m pregnant.”

“Oh, Padmé.” Satine hugs her tight. “I don’t know what to say.”

Satine sets Padmé and the handmaids up in one of her many empty suites, gets them what they need to cover their tracks—plus a five-course meal and enough wine to blunt the edge of Padmé’s grief. They stay up late, reminiscing and planning. Mandalore's problems give Padmé a welcome distraction.

\--

Late that night, when Satine is just about to close her eyes, she gets a comm message from a number she doesn't recognize.

"hi thal!" it says. "or should i say your grace :P it was great to meet you the other day! let's talk soon!"

Satine smiles like a sunbeam at the message. It's late; she'll reply in the morning.

(She wonders for a moment at how quickly her heart is ready to be hurt again. Then again, it’s the same heart that fell for a committed Jedi in the first place. It seems to love setting her up for devastation.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“Haar’chak shabla osik’la shu’shuk”_ \- "goddamn fucking piece-of-shit fuckup"  
>  _haar’chak_ \- "goddammit"  
>  _"Shabla mirshe"_ \- "fucked-up brain"  
>  _osik_ \- "shit"  
>  _shabuir_ \- "motherfucker"  
>  _osik'la_ \- "piece-of-shit"  
>  _osik_ \- "crap"  
>  _gar shabuir_ \- "you motherfucker"  
>  _ner shebs_ \- "my ass"


	4. Kot

**KOT _(strength)_ **

 

 

Despite the night’s events, Satine is awake before dawn. Sleep seems to have deserted her. Somewhat directionless, she deals with it the way she always does: by writing an agenda. Well, several agendas. One for herself (with sub-agendas for every item), one for Bo-Katan, and one for every member of her cabinet—well, most of them.

She looks at her color-coded lists over her steaming mug of caf: perfect.

First up: replying to Yulia’s message. If she’s being honest, this is the most anxiety-inducing thing on any of her lists, but she steels herself and does it.

 _Hi Yulia_ , she types. _I would be thrilled to see you again soon. As you might imagine, things are a bit hectic around here, but perhaps I could take you out this weekend?_

 _Phew_. She adds "run background check" to her agenda—best to be prudent. Spies have turned up before, sometimes in _extremely_ inconvenient situations.

The morning is a whirlwind of meetings. Satine dresses in her favorite sky-blue silk, waltzes into her office—and fires half her cabinet.

And that’s just the beginning. She feels positively giddy. There are reporters swarming the palace’s doors, trying to get past security, but they’ll just have to wait for the press conference.

When she checks her datapad, there’s a message from Bo:

_You’ve gone off the deep end. I like it._

And another from Padmé, who’s watching via security camera:

_All right! Give ‘em hell, girl!_

Satine smiles.

Soon enough, it’s time for the press conference. Satine takes a shuttle back to, yes, the speaking platform in the main square. Unpleasant memories live here, it’s true, but good ones too.

She steps up to the podium, fiddles with a corner of the flimsi on which she scribbled her notes. Even after a lifetime of public speaking, she’s a bit nervous. There’s a lot riding on this.

The square is packed. When Satine looks out, she sees—her people. _Mando’ade_ of every species and race, dressed in everything from plain civilian clothes to traditional armor; she even spots a few Deathwatch helmets.

Satine leans forward and switches on the microphone. It hums and crackles.

"Hello there," she says.

There's a confused murmur. Satine smiles.

"Yes, I know," she says. "This is all pretty different form the way things usually operate around here. But if I've learned anything recently, it's that Mandalore has been long overdue for a change." She clears her throat.

"The past few days have been incredibly hard for everyone. They've been hard for me too. I may have seemed distant and closed off, because I didn't know yet how to pick up the pieces. But—thanks to some incredibly important people in my life—"

Here she looks directly at Bo-Katan, who is at the edge of the crowd, pretending she's too cool to actually be there. Satine smiles.

"I think I have an idea of how to move forward. And I want to ask for your help too. Because if there's anything I've realized, it's that I am nothing—Mandalore is nothing—without _you_. And that means _every one_ of you. _Mando’ade, gar ke'gyceri ner kad bal jate'kara_.”

Satine hears a few gasps—and then cheering. She’ll admit it, she’s a bit proud of that one. Most in the audience are too young to have ever heard it used, but to the older ones it carries an entire world of meaning. When clans ruled the Mandalore system and loyalties changed by the day, the sword-oath was used to pledge service or repay debts. _You command my sword and my destiny._ While Satine’s ideals are important, her people are worth more—and until she can show that through her actions, this might be the only way to convey her commitment to change.

Well, that _seems_ to have gone well. Time will have to tell. But Satine can’t stick around to judge. It’s time for the next step—which, if possible, is even more of a doozy.

The meetings are against the advice of Bo-Katan, every remaining member of Satine's cabinet, common sense, Mandalorian news hosts and people interviewed on the street, not to mention the very people she's meeting with—but Satine goes ahead with them anyway, pulling out every last stop of older-sister strong-arming and Duchess leverage to force Bo-Katan and her cabinet to set them up.

They’ve budgeted out fifteen-minute blocks, hours of them: Satine is determined to meet with as many of the surviving Concordian exiles as she can. Well, those who are willing to speak to her.

"This is monumentally stupid," Bo-Katan hisses for about the fourteenth time, as Satine heads into the room.

"I'm aware of your opinion."

" _Vod_ , you are so pig-headed. Be careful.”

She'd insisted on no guards, no partition, just a plain table between her and the interviewees. And yes, perhaps it is stupid. But Satine can defend herself capably, and if she were to put up six inches of bulletproof transparisteel and speak through a comm line—? What message would that send, to the person on the other side of the table, to Mandalore, to the galaxy itself? For any kind of reconciliation to be possible, fear has to be put aside, and sometimes that's done not by surrounding yourself with protections to assure your safety, but _trusting_ , against everything you know or were raised to know.

Lofty ideas, anyway. The day starts off excellently, with a teenaged boy who spits in Satine's face as soon as he walks in—and the guards bust in to remove him, but Satine holds up her hand and waves them away.

"Lida," she says, calling the boy by his name. "I understand you’re angry. I’m here because I want to understand why.”

That surprises him. He begins to talk, and Satine does the only thing she can: she listens.

The next ten interviews go something the same—some better, some worse, but no one with hatred so open that Satine can't find some kind of common ground. She asks them about their dreams, old and new, their experiences, where and whether they see themselves fitting into Mandalorian society—and she makes about a thousand mental notes.

The twelfth Concordian is a rail-thin woman, perhaps a few years younger than Satine herself. She seems nervous to be in Satine's presence, always looking around and stammering. Satine's heart goes out to her; it must be strange, to be ostracized from the society you knew, and then to be greeted like a friend by the person whose empire threw you out.

Satine smiles gently—which is when the woman snarls and hurls herself across the table.

After that, Satine doesn’t remember much.

—

She comes to in a hospital bed, although she can tell from the familiar smell of baking bread that it's been set up inside her own kitchens at home. She blinks, her eyes slowly focusing on the figure next to her: Bo-Katan, looking worried and run hard.

"Hey," Satine murmurs.

"Oh, you're up. Satine, I'm sure I don't have to tell you that that was really kriffing dumb."

Satine shakes her head. "The idea was sound. I got unlucky."

"You got stabbed, is what you got! You lost a unit and a half of blood!"

"Bo. It was working. You saw it."

"Satine, you idiot, you're lucky it was only a broken fork, because if she’d had a _kal_ you would be _dead_." Bo is shaking. "We can all sit around and hold hands, and the New Mandalorians can hug it out with the exiles and get them therapy and reintegrate them into society, but _haar’chak_ , it doesn't mean a thing to me if I lose you."

Satine closes her eyes. Unsurprisingly, she's thinking of what set her down this road in the first place. "You're right, Bo," she says softly. "I'm sorry."

Bo sighs. "No, I'm sorry. I shouldn’t be yelling at you. The important thing is, you're here."

Satine smiles and, finding Bo's hand in hers, she squeezes it. "Yes. And I don't intend to leave just yet."

The thin line of Bo’s mouth finally turns up in a smile. “Good.”

Padmé visits, later, and then Yulia—much to Satine's surprise. She has flowers, and chocolate, which is entirely too good to be true.

"Bo let you in?" Satine asks.

"Yes—well, after some questioning."

Satine sighs. "That's my sister."

"How are you feeling, Your Grace?"

Satine waves a hand. "Satine. Please."

"Satine," Yulia says slowly, with a cautious smile. "All right.”

"I’m doing fine, thank you. I just need to rest up for a few days.”

“I’m glad.”

"My apologies," Satine says, looking around at the IV set up next to her bed, the industrial-sized kitchen equipment. "This isn't a very good first date.”

Yulia laughs at that, twisting her fingers in her green robe.

“Actually, I mostly came to say thank you.” She runs a hand through her hair. It looks so soft, Satine thinks dreamily. “My family—we lost most of my mother’s side in the fighting. It fractured us. Watching you talk to those people... It was the closest I’ve come to feeling like there’s a way to heal those wounds.”

“I’m so glad to hear that,” Satine murmurs. Suddenly she feels rather tired.

“I should let you rest.” Yulia stands hurriedly. “Feel better soon.”

It _has_ been a long day. Satine just manages to wave goodbye before slipping into restful, dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Mando’ade, gar ke'gyceri ner kad bal jate'kara"_ \- "people of Mandalore, you command my sword and my destiny." Satine is expressing that her role as a leader is to serve her people, not the other way around. (This oath and the bit of lore around it is something I made up, not canon.)  
>  _vod_ \- "sibling" (Mando'a does not specify gender)  
>  _kal_ \- "blade"   
> _haar’chak_ \- "goddammit"


	5. Arpat'e

**ARPAT’E _(seeds)_ **

 

_(Ten years later)_

She is having trouble sleeping. She always does, on this day. The moonlight sears her eyes, but she doesn't close the blinds. Better just to wait it out.

There's a knock at her door. Satine's body jerks violently, starting out of half-sleep. It takes a few moments to bring her breathing back to normal.

Quietly, so as not to wake Yulia, she slides out of bed and answers the door.

She knows who she’ll see before she opens it. His figure shimmers like moonlight trapped in ice.

"Sorry," he murmurs. "I didn't mean to surprise you."

Satine smiles. He looks the same as he did back then: the sharp lines of his borrowed armor, his perfect posture, one lock of hair loose over his forehead. Her fingers itch to fix it.

"Walk with me," she says instead. "I thought I might see you tonight."

Together they head to the nearby kitchen. Satine sets the small electro-kettle to boil; Obi-Wan stands by the wide windows, looking out at the moon and the night sky.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” he asks. Time is different for him, shifting like desert sand.

Satine nods. “Three years since I saw you last.”

Obi-Wan bows his head. After a moment, he clears his throat. "How are you?"

"Oh, fine," Satine says. "The Empire keeps knocking on our door, but we haven't let them in yet. Padmé and the girls are well. And Luke says hi. He wants to know when Uncle Ben will visit again."

Obi-Wan smiles. "That's good to hear, but it isn't what I asked," he explains. "How are _you?"_

There's that mischievous look in his eyes, the one that still sets her pulse racing like it did when they first met. The absurdity of it strikes her, that a man ten years dead can make her blush, and she laughs.

"I'm well," she says simply. "I miss you."

They stay there for hours, chatting, reminiscing—until the first rays of dawn glint into Satine's eyes. She knows what that means, but knowing it doesn't lessen the pain in her chest.

"Well." Obi-Wan stands and gives a little bow. "It seems I must be going. A very pleasant evening, Duchess, as always."

Satine's throat closes up, and by the time she gets control of her voice again, he's faded in a shimmer of sparks. The words _I love you_ burn on her tongue.

—

The bedroom is flooded with morning light by the time Satine slides out of bed again. So is the kitchen; Yulia is seated in the breakfast nook, doing the crossword.

 _"Cyar'ika,"_ Yulia murmurs, when Satine kisses her forehead. "And how are you this morning?"

“All right.” Satine slides in beside her, leans her head on Yulia’s shoulder.

"You saw him last night, didn't you?" Yulia pushes a plate in front of her, and the smell has Satine awake in a moment: fresh scones, still warm. Yulia must have been up early.

Satine nods. "It hurts less and less every time." As the words leave her mouth, she realizes they aren't strictly true. Perhaps it does hurt less, but mainly what she notices is that it hurts _differently_. Every time she sees him again the old sorrow splits and cracks open to reveal a new layer—which is sometimes healing, sometimes painful, but most often a mix of both.

Yulia smiles. She’s grown her hair long since they first met; Satine thinks she looks like a goddess, and often tells her so. “Have a scone. Cures everything.”

“Oh, twist my arm.” Satine takes several. "Anything from Senator Organa?"

"Not yet." Yulia drags a hand across her face. "I don't think I'll be able to relax until I know we've made the drop."

“I know. Remember, no matter what happens, the Rebellion will continue. The Empire can’t stamp us out entirely.”

“That’s my warrior,” Yulia murmurs, and Satine laughs. Unconsciously, her fingers move to brush the smooth surface of her wedding band.

She glances over to the low, expansive sofa, where Padmé and her girlfriends are curled up with Luke. They're watching some silly holovid, their heads crowded together over the small screen, giggling.

Satine smiles.

Against all odds, her little family has survived this long—and in surviving, they carry with them those who came before. Whatever the future holds, they will face it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _cyar'ika_ \- "sweetheart, darling"

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Avenging](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14531889) by [DraloreShimare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DraloreShimare/pseuds/DraloreShimare)
  * [Art for Ashfields and Brine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14540691) by [kyberpunk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyberpunk/pseuds/kyberpunk)




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